


We'll Make Each Other Last

by Akoya8



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: 404 Jisbon Not Found, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hell Hath No Fury Like A Slut Out-Flanked, If It Bleeds It Leads to Little Red Corvette, Like Really Really Evil, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly Dubious Consent Is Probably Not Enough, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Sadism, Sorry Not Sorry, Undercover, Volker Is Evil, no happy ending, what if au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akoya8/pseuds/Akoya8
Summary: Lisbon will do anything it takes to bring Volker down, even if it means taking him up on his disgusting offer to go out with him.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 20





	1. Posess

**Author's Note:**

> This work is ongoing, part of a writing prompt series I'm doing with my friend, TheMysteryVanishing. It's non-linear because the chapters have no particular order and will be posted as they are written. One day, I might go back and organize and fully edit, but for now this is it (and "it" includes very little attention paid to keeping everything in the same verb tense, apologies). For a longtime Jane/Lisbon shipper, this came out of nowhere in a rewatch I was doing of the full series. There is some seriously fucked up chemistry between Lisbon and Volker and I want to go down the rabbit hole as far as I can. 
> 
> This will not be happy. I can't promise trigger warnings for chapters, so this is very much a read at your own risk story.

Tommy Volker looked after the things that were his. Even though he had millions, he was not in the habit of treating something carelessly, as if it could be replaced with an exact replica that would meet his needs in the same way. He knew his counterparts were not of the same mind. Take Mashburn for instance; someday soon, the number of ex-wives he had would rival that of his car collection. _Carelessness_. Its own kind of sin, Volker thought.

Watching his bodyman choke the life out of Amanda, Miss Shaw, was caretaking of a sort, he knew. Pruning might be a more apt description. She was poisoning the tree he’d grown from a seedling into a massive energy-driven empire and removing her would be for the benefit of every single person he employed.

But Volker didn’t need to rationalize his murder of his personal assistant. She was dying because he wanted her to and seeing the life fade away from her once vibrant face was satisfying for myriad reasons. Exciting, too, now that he thought about it. Exciting in a way the other murders had not been.

Lisbon was on his trail now; she had the scent, and like the good dog she was, she’d be sure to follow him around until she had something that she could take to a judge for a warrant.

Volker was aware enough to realize he might slip up, but he hadn’t so far, so why would he now? Still, he’d feed his little bloodhound the scraps she’d need to keep after him, going berserk at the most tenuous of connections that he’d hand her like treats to keep her compliant as he maneuvered her into whatever position he desired.

Volker looked after what was his, and Teresa Lisbon, over the course of just a few days, had become so thoroughly his. And possession was nine-tenths of her law.


	2. Metal

_There’s truth that lives and truth that dies_.

_He owns the world,_ Lisbon thinks, _or at least enough of it_. _But he doesn’t own me_. She has to stomp down the thought trailing up behind that one, screaming itself into existence as she tried to hide from it: _he doesn’t own me…yet_.

_Calm down, Teresa,_ she tells herself sternly and eyeballs her watch for what feels like the hundredth time. Bertram is a bureaucrat to his core, self-interested and lazy, but even he won’t be able to sign off on her crazy idea if he can see how nervous she is.

The door to Bertram’s office finally opens and Lisbon goes rigid in the chair before forcing herself to relax back into, laying down a thick façade of nonchalance that would make Jane proud.

_For the love of the Holy Virgin, Teresa_ , _don’t think about Jane_.

“…we’ll talk about that later, Haffner, but for now consider this—”

“Hey, Teresa,” Haffner interjects, “long time no see; how’s Serious Crimes?”

Smile, goddammit, and act natural, Lisbon.

“We’re keeping ahead of the killers, for once,” Lisbon says, “it’s been a week full of paperwork; and you?”

“Can’t say the same, but the paperwork sounds familiar.” Haffner settles into the chair next to hers as Bertram oozes behind the desk, sitting up straight in his leather seat of power.

“Okay, Lisbon,” Bertram starts, clearly annoyed that he’s had to give up precious bigwig schmoozing time, “we’re all here. What do you want?”

Lisbon swallows, mouth suddenly dry, “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted your day, sir, but I believe this is important enough to merit your attention and I’m currently down an immediate superior.” She almost winces as she trails off at the end. Her lack of immediate superior is partially her own fault. (Her fault for not taking control of the scene back quickly enough, her fault for letting the FBI interfere, her fault for letting Jane out of her sight in the first place.)

“Yes, well, nothing we can do about that right now. Get to the point, Lisbon, I’ve got a lunch meeting that I refuse to be late for.”

“Apologies, sir, I’ll try to be brief. About two weeks ago my team caught a case; I’m sure you’ll remember it, Cassie Flood, the murdered reporter?”

“Of course,” Ray says, “the one who was killed by the anchor, Hunt, or something, right?”

“Right,” Lisbon affirms. “Over the course of our investigation, I received information from a source that I had been hoping to turn into a CI about why Hunt murdered Flood. Hunt claimed that Tommy Volker had put him up to doing the job himself, and that was corroborated by my source. My source ended up dead in her apartment, which was ruled a suicide by the ME, less than 24 hours after she’d agreed to testify against Volker and continue informing on him until I had sufficient evidence to serve him a warrant.”

“I’m well aware that you almost started a witch-hunt, Lisbon, and frankly, I’m more than a little concerned to be hearing about it again. What the hell are we doing here?”

_Focus, Lisbon, don’t lose the fucking plot here in front of Bertram or he’ll suspend you before you can say “Red John.”_

“You’re right, sir, I came very close to making accusations that I could not support with evidence, which is why I asked to meet with both of you today. I have a way to build my case against Volker that shouldn’t put the CBI in danger of losing any of its credibility.”

“I’m all ears, Lisbon, but you should know that the governor is, too. Volker is a personal friend of his, and he won’t take kindly to your accusations, so this better really fucking good.”

Lisbon takes a deep breath, “I have reason to believe that Tommy Volker would like to engage in a sexual relationship with me, sir, in fact, I have an explicit and standing invitation to go on a date with him and I’d like to ask you to let me do so under the guise of performing an undercover investigation.”

Both Haffner and Bertram cease breathing and Lisbon braces herself for what is sure to be an onslaught of outrage.

Haffner opens his mouth, but Bertram cuts him off, “Are you out of your goddamned mind, Lisbon?! What fucking bug crawled up your ass and demanded that you come to me with something this fucking stupid? ‘An undercover investigation’? Newsflash, Lisbon, you’ve already fucked up the basic principle: Volker knows you’re a cop, you’re made, that’s the ballgame! And explain to me how the evidence you provide would be treated as anything other than prejudicial and fruit of the poisonous tree as it is illegally obtained through whatever searches and interrogations you commit while posing as his fucking girlfriend?!”

Nothing that Bertram said was unexpected (Lisbon had even prepped herself for what she was sure would be near-apoplectic rage), but she’d prepared, too. “Anything to add, Ray, before I respond,” she asks Haffner.

Haffner sits back, content to listen until she’s done.

“I admit, sir,” Lisbon starts, “that not everything I get will be admissible in court. Some of it may be considered prejudicial and at the worst, circumstantial, but I am confident that given enough time, I can make a substantial evidence-based case that will be held up in any court of law. All I need is time and your permission…and a handler,” she darts her eyes to Haffner, so he knows that she’s fingering him for the job. “Volker knows I’m CBI, but he doesn’t care. He’s so damn sure of his own superiority that he won’t be able to believe, only suspect, that I’ll be able to get anything on him through a relationship. And…it makes sense to send me. He’s already invested in making sure I fail and getting what he wants out of me at the same time that he’s bound to slip up. The odds are against him. I just need you to give me a chance, sir, and if I can’t bring you anything tangible in a month that proves I’m on the right track, I’ll back off and call it a loss. We’re not losing anything by committing me to this gambit, sir.”

Lisbon bites back on saying more, hating that she sounds like she’s begging to be thrown into the sadistic clutches of Volker, but she knows she’s out of options. Jane’s too absorbed by Lorelei Martins and his lead on Red John to stop and see what’s going on around him and at this point, Lisbon is thinking she’d rather commit ritual suicide than ask for his help. She does not, nor has she ever, needed Jane’s help in solving a case. His input is valuable and it makes things go faster, but she’s a good detective in her own right and she’s spent more than 10 years proving that to every fucker with a badge who thought his dick gave him an edge over her. _This is no different_ , Lisbon thinks fiercely.

Bertram is mulling over her argument, clearly weighing the pros and cons of what could easily turn into a huge shitshow of an investigation that lands the entirety of the CBI in hot fucking water. But the prize, oh the prize might be too much for Bertram to resist. Lisbon knows he hates the governor and any opportunity to disgrace him by association might be too good to pass up.

Bertram looks at Haffner, who’s been attentively silent this whole time. “What do you think, Ray?”

Lisbon bristles a little, but only a little. She’s dragging Haffner into this and she hadn’t even done him the courtesy of giving him a head’s up, and she knows if she were in his position, she’d want one.

Haffner starts slowly, “I think that Lisbon is a great detective, and that she could be onto something here, but I’m worried about the possibility of this turning into a long-term undercover assignment. We rotate vice out pretty regularly, making sure that they’re not in the shit too long, but we won’t have that option here. There’s no one else that we could put in instead and if he hurts you…Lisbon if he hurts you, you might end up limping away or worse. You’re basically giving him carte blanche to do whatever the fuck he wants with you for however long it takes to make your case. You can’t sit here and tell me you’re prepared for that.”

His concern is grating, patronizing. He thinks he has insight into what she can and can’t take. He doesn’t know about the beatings she took from her father when he was on the verge of blacking out, breath heavy with booze, sweating shame and anger out in buckets as he struck her with his hand, belt, and sometimes foot. He doesn’t know about the times she’d had to clean herself up and then her father and get him into bed. How she struggled to lift her own body off the floor, let alone his. How quiet she kept as he was hitting her so that her brothers wouldn’t hear and come investigate. There is a whole world of pain that she carries in her bones that would shatter him if he felt an ounce of it.

But Lisbon shows none of her contempt and anger when she answers, “That’s why I asked for it to be you, Ray. I know you care and I know you’ll be able to help pull me out if it’s needed. But I can confidently say that Volker is nothing I need to be worried about, even if he does smack me around a little.” She lets her smile have a bit of an edge, showing these men that she’s not afraid of even the worst that Volker can do.

The room is silent again as Bertram and Haffner carry out the cost-benefit analysis of sending her into the lion’s jaws.

“I’m signing off on this, Lisbon, but only on a month to month basis. Haffner, not you, will make a monthly report to me and only if he continues to sign off each month will this be allowed to continue. You and I will only meet as it relates to your other cases.”

Triumph surges through her, but in the back of her throat she tastes something sour, metallic, like sucking on a greasy coin. She shakes off the sensation and stands to shake Bertram’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I promise you I’ll get him.”

“If you don’t, Lisbon, then you’d better keep your fucking mouth shut and head down for the rest of time, or so help me God, I will ruin you,” Bertram warns.

“I’ll get him,” Lisbon repeats, firm in her belief that she’ll conquer Tommy Volker the way she has with all other problems in her life.

_Volker is mine_ , she crows inwardly. _He’s fucking mine and he’s going down_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's truth that lives and truth that dies" is a lyric from Leonard Cohen's "Never Mind" (which is amazing, you should go listen to it). 
> 
> Also, some license is taken with Lisbon's backstory here. Canonically, we know that her father only hurt one of her brother's while drunk, but there's no reason to suspect that his drunken violence was limited to just one of his children.


	3. Constant

During her two-hour drive to Half Moon Bay, she could have changed her mind.

Driving up to the valet stand in state-issued black SUV, she could have kept driving round the circle and back out to the highway.

Handing her keys over to the valet and telling him it was on Volker’s dime, which the valet agreed to without argument, she could have busted the kid right there for possession and handed him over to the locals and used that as an excuse to postpone her…date.

But Lisbon did none of those things and strode into the hotel, making her way to the concierge’s desk and telling him with confidence that Tommy Volker was waiting for her.

The concierge looked like he knew who she was (just like the valet) and summoned a steward to guide her to the murderer.

Lisbon took in the décor of the Ritz and part of her marveled at the over-priced luxury of its walls that surely had their share of bloody secrets ready to come pouring out if correctly questioned.

Thankfully, the steward did not lead her to the elevators, but instead to a restaurant that proclaimed itself to be The Conservatory and smelled like wine, seafood, stained wood, and tears (no, just salt, the salt of the ocean that beat itself senseless against the uncaring shore just outside the windows).

She’d long ago taught herself not to fidget when others looked at her like she didn’t belong with her leather jacket and worn boots. She made sure her badge flashed as she swung her arms back and forth. She was police. There was not a single place in California that she did not belong. Let these entitled fuckers suck on that and choke it down.

Winding through the surprisingly small room and back to walls filled with wine and a large table dominating the center, and the smell of wine even stronger now.

The steward left her there with a polite bow and Lisbon occupied herself and her mind by investigating what looked to be over-priced reds that she’d never buy for herself but liked to look at, nonetheless.

“Thank you for joining me, Agent Lisbon,” Volker said, as he closed the door to the room behind him. His entrance had been soundless, but it jarred against her skin, prickling the hair on the back of her neck. She was alone with a predator, had willing placed herself there, and there was no going back now.

“Mr. Volker,” she replied.

“Tommy, please,” he smiled, all charm and ease, “and if I may call you Teresa?”

“I’d prefer Agent Lisbon, if you don’t mind, Mr. Volker.” He had to know why she was there, but that didn’t mean she had to make any of this easier for him.

As Bertram had said, she was already made. There was no hiding behind a false identity that had been specially constructed with the sole purpose of seducing Tommy Volker to gather evidence against him. He knew she’d only agreed to this “date” as a pretext to get close him. That she’d permit liberties be taken with her person as a way to get further “dates.” That she’d build a relationship with this murderer and willingly go to his bed to try and get him to a future court date and prison onesie.

But none of that meant she’d just give up and do exactly what he wanted because that was the guaranteed way to lose his interest. Lisbon would bend only so far and he’d bend along with her and each would try to see what they could do to make the other break.

_Jane has Red John and I have Tommy Volker_. Lisbon was quite confident, however, that Red John would never fuck Jane (though, if she were to be fair, her college literature professor would say that Red John _had_ fucked Jane and Jane had fucked him because they’d both fucked Lorelei Martins and were currently involved in some twisted triangulation of desire with each other).

But she turned her thoughts away from Jane because she couldn’t think about him and go through with this. Couldn’t think about him turning sad eyes on her, wounded that she’d stoop to this rather than come to him, but he could’ve done something if he’d just paid attention for one goddamn—

“I’m sure we’ll be past the formalities before the end of the night, _Agent Lisbon_ ,” Volker conceded, but it wasn’t really a concession Lisbon knew because he was right. Before the night was over, she’d probably agree to let him call her anything he wanted because that’s how this game was going to be played.

“I don’t care if we’re ever past them, Mr. Volker. We know why we’re here,” Lisbon shrugged, projecting an air of apathy that he was sure to see past but would rankle just a bit anyway.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Agent Lisbon. I thought we were here for dinner, and maybe later, we’d get to know each other a little better,” Volker smiled slightly. If someone were keeping score of their exchange, there’d be points on both sides, but no clear victor.

“I guess I could eat,” Lisbon said, “I did just drive two hours to get to this joint and the food doesn’t smell too bad, just expensive.”

Lisbon seated herself at the table. It was meant to be surrounded by enough chairs for a full party, yet all but two had been removed, and rather than staring each other down from opposite ends of the long slab of wood, they were mere feet apart as Volker took his own seat, casually unbuttoning his jacket as he did so.

“I hope you find the spread to your liking; I asked Chef John to make us all the specials this evening. And the sommelier has prepared the pairings herself,” Volker assured, as if that would mean something to her.

“I won’t be drinking tonight, Mr. Volker. I could be called in.” If she had her way, she’d never drink anything but water out of a bottle she’d opened herself around him, but she’d settle for never drinking alcohol.

“That’s a shame, Agent Lisbon; I was hoping you’d join me in indulging, but I’ll let the sommelier know her services won’t be needed after all.”

“You can drink, Mr. Volker, I—”

“A clear mind is a gift, Agent Lisbon, and I don’t mind abstaining, though Chef John might cry a little.”

_Fuck Chef John and the sommelier with a bottle of two-dollar cab_ , Lisbon sneered silently.

“If you like, we can take the whole dinner up to my penthouse, Agent Lisbon. I just thought you might be more comfortable meeting out in the open at first,” Volker said, managing to sound both condescending and conscientious all at once.

“What makes you think I’d be uncomfortable, Mr. Volker? We can go up right now.” Lisbon has already made room for this night in her confessional to Father Donald in the coming week, and she prays to the Virgin for strength as she stands up, looking down at Volker for once (he was needlessly tall when he stood next to her and she relished the change). “Have them bring dinner up, even. I’m sure we’ll work up an even bigger appetite.”

His eyes light up at her insinuation, taking on an almost fiery gleam. He hadn’t expected her capitulation and it threw him off a little bit, but she can see that he’s ready to make the most of it.

He takes a plastic card from his pocket and hands it to her. “Here, you go on up; I’ll make the arrangements.”

Lisbon wishes she didn’t feel gratitude for his offer, wishes that she didn’t need to the elevator ride up to psych herself up for what she is sure will be a night of sexual torture. _You signed up for this, Teresa_. _He can’t hurt you worse than you’ve been hurt before_. _You’re the strongest person you know and it will take more than Volker to break you_.

His penthouse spans most of the floor, looking out on the ocean and Lisbon immediately goes to the balcony, taking deep breaths of the briny air. The sound of the ocean where she’s standing sounds less like crashing and more like shushing. The constant susurration is soothing, gentling the tightly wound muscles in her lower back and lowering her shoulders.

But she tightens up again the instant a warm hand presses against her lower back, dipping into the leather of her jacket and sinking straight into her skin, which is now pimpling despite the warm air.

“I didn’t think you’d let me in this quickly, Teresa,” he hisses against her ear. “But, I’m finding that you’re full of surprises. A source of constant delight, my dear, I assure you.”

He nips at her ear lobe and she shudders, disgust and a twinge of arousal swirling around in her stomach, making her nauseous and light-headed.

“Why don’t we get a little more comfortable,” Volker whispers, moving from her ear and biting lightly at her neck, “and see where the night takes us.”

Lisbon lets him slide her jacket down her shoulders and drop it to the balcony. She does not resist when he unholsters her gun and handcuffs, but stops him when he makes a move towards her badge. No one is allowed to touch the symbol of her authority but her, and she knows deep down that if he even smudged the shiny metal with a single oily fingerprint, it would be tainted forever. She drops it down to rest next to the gun, on a conveniently located chaise (and promises herself she’ll clean the gun later tonight as even a little bit of time out in the ocean air can leave its mark).

Lisbon lets him lead her back into the suite and watches as he begins to strip, heedless of the open doors.

The ocean surges outside, wetting the sand over and over again.


	4. Rhetorical

“Jane, if you can’t convince me that she’s not better off with the feds right now, then you can’t convince Bertram, either. We can’t win that fight, not with everything else piling on.”

“You have an astoundingly low opinion of my abilities if you think I can’t convince Gale to do what I want, Lisbon. Eventually, anyway. He’ll take some warming up; he always does.”

“Jane, this isn’t your friend talking right now, it’s your boss: leave Bertram alone right now. Give him a week or so then try again.” Lisbon knows her voice is too high pitched, her tone too curt. Already she’s reaching for an excuse, something to feed the gears and lubricate the cogs of Jane’s ever-inquisitive mind, and as predictable as spring rain, he’s there.

Jane narrows his eyes at her, “What did you ask him for? Something he couldn’t say no to, I’ll wager, which made him angry and now he won’t hear me out at all. Lisbon, that’s infuriating and you know it! You know how close I am, how much I need her—”

“This team doesn’t run on your needs alone, Jane! I have three agents under me and their careers are made and broken by the work we do every single goddamned day, and I have to take that into consideration, which is more than I can say for you!”

She knows that hurts him, the accusation that he doesn’t care about Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Cho, that he doesn’t care about her. But the Jane that came back from Vegas is different. He was always a user, a manipulator, but he always cared (even though his caring would sometimes manifest in the most obnoxious of ways). The Jane sitting on her couch (the couch that he bought for her because her old one was uncomfortable) is almost a stranger to her. He sounds like Jane, dresses like Jane, walks like Jane, but his is as alien to her now as he was when he first walked into her bullpen. The years she’d spent knowing him, learning him crumpled up and tossed away, as if they’d been the wrong manual (like she’d been learning Morse instead of binary).

And horrifyingly, he still knows her.

To be known by the unknown, to be seen by something now hidden…

Lisbon _loathes_ it, the kind of power Jane holds over her with his knowing. He should have forfeited all rights when he faked his breakdown and spent those months holed up in shitty casinos, fleecing marks and drinking cheap liquor.

Watching that hurt bloom in Jane’s eyes is satisfying, but the emptiness he uses to cover it is not. It had been a cheap shot, and Lisbon knows she should apologize (especially because Bertram is angry about her request, her investigation, and not anything to do with the team at all). But she can’t because Jane is only thinking about Lorelei Martins and how much he needs her to get to Red John.

Lisbon sighs, “Give it a week, Jane. She’s not going anywhere and Bertram needs time to cool off. Give it a week and try then.”

It’s a not-apology, an olive branch of understanding.

 _For Brutus is an honorable man_.

She didn’t think about Shakespeare that much, not after college anyway, but he occupied his own shelf in Jane’s memory palace, and Antony’s speech came back to her now.

 _For Lisbon is an honorable woman_.

“Give it a week, Jane, and I’ll pitch in. I might have something that will sweeten him up for you; just give me a week, Jane.” She hates the pleading in her voice, hates that what will be sweetening the pot is the information she hopes to have on Volker, hard won through the service of her body and investigative mind.

Some warmth comes back to Jane and he smiles, grateful that she’s on his side again, and she’s so grateful that he doesn’t pry (the way he so often does) that she smiles back.

_For Lisbon is an honorable woman._


	5. Plasma

He could tell that she was trying to create a separate headspace in which she could be distracted from what she was doing, what they were about to do.

Volker was not offended or angered by the attempt. In fact, he relished it. Her attempt to remove herself mentally from what she had willingly committed to was a weakness he could exploit.

He vowed to himself, as he watched her mechanically remove her clothes, was to make sure she never had an escape. All the doors, mental and physical, would be closed to her after tonight (and it might take her years to fully realize it).

Watching her hands move across her body, there was nothing sexual in the motions. It was all perfunctory, rote work. She equated him with the job. He was one of the criminals she hunted day in and day out and there was nothing more routine to her than treating him as such. Volker enjoyed the sensation, reveled in the tenacity that brought her to his door.

But she could be so much _more_. She could perfect, she could be broken and his and no one would ever be able to put her back together.

Volker had sponsored an exhibit once, some charity event that he’d used as write off to get the first quarter of the coming year started right. One of the featured artists specialized in _kintsugi_. Unlike most of the other artists there, this one had more years behind him than ahead. He wasn’t interested in talking about his work as if it had some deep meaning to it. Instead, it was all showcased simply, and he made no attempt to sell his pieces.

One piece in particular had caught his eye, a malformed ceramic, cracks inlaid with white gold, the bright glitter glowing amidst dull uncolored clay, and an equally quiet card announced its name: _Plasma_.

Almost against his will, Volker had found himself intrigued. There was nothing about the piece that indicated a relationship to either blood or electricity. There was thought in the piece, but almost absentminded, inattentive.

He asked the old man, who shrugged in response. “The piece was nearly done; the clay had wanted to be a bowl and my hands were obliging. I heard a crack, and something hit my roof, and what been a bowl was now something else. Couldn’t sell it like it was, and it didn’t want to be fixed. It had utility in its form, so I baked it. It sat on my shelf for many years, sometimes holding, sometimes not. A fault I hadn’t seen before I baked it had too many years of strain on it, and it cracked. The metal took to it easily, filled it in and held it together. So, why not sell it now?”

The man shrugged again, “ _Unmei_ , it is what it was meant to be. I merely gave it shape, plasma.”

The piece now sat in his library, unremarked and untouched. And that, too, was its fate.

Lisbon’s future would be shaped here and now, in his bed, under his mouth and hands and cock, and there would be no metal in the world strong enough to reshape her once he was done.

And he knew he’d never be done.


	6. Respond

While she’d been taking off her clothes, he’d only removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Her vulnerable nakedness juxtaposed against his fully hidden body was too delicious a thought. He wanted to watch her nipples harden as they were abraded by his shirt, take in her wince as the metal of his belt ground into her skin.

He’d rip from her every unwilling expression she had buried within her, and he’d sip the rawness left behind until there was nothing left for anyone that would dare to come after.

With every piece she took away, he watched as she replaced it with her invisible armor.

Her shield was almost all the way up when he decided it was time to intervene.

A touch, a graze of his fingers across the smoothness of her soft belly and she jerked away from him.

Volker pursued.

Lisbon was steeled now, bracing herself against his invasion, so he gentled even more.

Knelt down before her and traced up her legs with his fingertips and instead of staring down at him, she looked away.

He demanded her attention, not with pain (that would come later, so much later, after he’d taught her body to burn with pleasure first), but with absence. He’d draw back as soon as she tensed, let her muster her guard again and then go back for more.

Volker would tear her down by inches if he had to.

There was something inherently thrilling about the act of merely touching Lisbon; it was somehow more violent than the act of fucking her would be. She _knew_ what he’d done, what he was capable of, and yet she’d yielded herself to him, such a sweet sacrifice, because she thought she could trap him. Thought he’d be so cunt-struck that she could pry into his life and take his secrets.

But the knowing, God, the knowing was delicious. She was going to spread her thighs for him, let him fuck her, and all the while she would know what his PA’s body had looked like when Milk was done with it. How she’d looked so pure in white robe, hanging from her ceiling. How she must have struggled so hard to live, only to fail under the overwhelming power of the large man.

She knew and yet here she was because she’d seen no other way to try and stop him.

Lisbon had made herself his without ever realizing the cage she’d locked herself into. She’d see the bars soon enough, but it would be too late by then.

His touch isn’t overtly sexual, it’s barely there. He moved in and out, memorizing the planes of her body as she stands before him, feeling out her scars, glancing over bruises that are yellowed with age or ripe with freshness. And she was stoic through it all. _Delicious_.

He nudged her ever so slightly to the bed, and she went without complaint, his St Teresa.

There was no grace in her climb onto the bed, just a clamber up and into the certain, her ass swaying so temptingly out to him. He had to force back his desire to grab her and bite into her soft flesh, to feel her tear beneath his teeth and bleed so beautifully.

He followed, stopping only to toe off his shoes and pull off his socks, the rest of his clothing still wrapped around him.

She clearly didn’t like having her back to him as he moved behind her, and she turned over quickly, settling into the pillows lining the headboard, eyes narrowed, mistrustful.

Volker finally broke the carefully cultivated silence, cutting through the sound of the pulsing waves outside.

“I’m going to promise you something, Teresa, right here and now.”

She stayed quiet, but he could see how the wheels in her mind turned, ready to file away whatever he said so that it could be resurrected and dissected once she left and huddled away in her office.

“I promise that every time you’re with me, it doesn’t matter where we are, you’ll come.”

She’s on the defensive again, tensing up, ready to rebut him, tell him not to let his ego be wounded, prepping all her excuses that she’s probably used with men in the past.

“Fuck that feminist bullshit, Teresa, your orgasms are _mine_ now, understand? And you will have one every. Single. Time. Starting now.”

She’s not ready, she doesn’t have the time to throw the shield back up and before she can push him away, he’s at her cunt.

With no preamble, Volker parts her lips, knowing that she’s probably dry, that any wetness is most likely her body reacting to a perceived threat and lubricating in self-defense so his intrusion is not so painful. He suspected that she thought he’d be rough, uncaring. That’s what she prepared for.

Her armor was made to withstand heavy assault, and he knew she’d never expect something so insidious as soft delight.

But she was warm and smelled earthy. He wanted to sink into her and plant himself so deep she’d never be able to get him out.

“Volker,” she hissed above him, “stop fucking around. This isn’t what I came for.”

He doesn’t answer and instead noses at her clit, making her inhale sharply.

_That’s it_.

He rubs a bit harder and hears her cut off a moan. He is intimately connected to her smell now and he licks, marrying taste and scent so he’ll always remember.

Volker curls his tongue into her, laving in long strokes and her thighs tremble around his head.

The buildup is slow and steady, he refuses to rush to the end; he wants her to break around him and know that she can never go back from it.

His hands are wrapped around her legs, not holding her down but holding her to him, moving her across his face until he’s bathed in her.

And then…

Her hand creeps into his hair, gripping the strands and pulling him harder into her. And Volker leans into it, his teeth grazing her clit just a little before he soothes it with his tongue, moving back down so he can taste her again.

And Lisbon presses him into her and cries out as she comes.


	7. Preparation

Lisbon would need more than two hands to count the number of times she’d had to get dressed up for some event or other (CBI charity balls, weddings, high school dances, funerals), but she’d always found shortcuts to speed the process up. A little bit of lip here, some mascara, a quick spritz of hairspray and she was out the door, in the car, and on the way.

Getting ready to go to some interminably long function on Volker’s arm had come to redefine what Lisbon had previously considered to be preparation.

The first time she’d been whisked away by one of his personal assistants to some spa and salon, she’d almost shot someone (several somones, actually, but she’d counted Volker at least three times). She’d be poked and prodded and waxed and pampered within and inch of her life and her anger had eventually emerged with the ferocity of Mt St Helens when she’d been alone with Volker again.

The fucker had merely smiled, turned her to face the wall, hiked up what had been a steamed, wrinkle-free skirt, and fucked her hard until they both came.

She’d been even angrier after that, but the anger now had purpose and direction and the clear vision of gunning him down in the middle of his God-awful party.

She remembered with near-ecstatic pleasure the surprise and pain on his face when she’d sucker-punched him at the end of the night (in the backseat of his limo, where the driver had asked, “Want me to take care of her, Mr Volker,” and her snapping back [because he must be new not know] that she was a cop and a vacation in Pelican Bay was just one phone call away if he didn’t keep his fucking nose out of her business).

She’d fucked _him_ after that, riding him in the backseat of that very limo while the driver took a long smoke break far away from the windows because even though being with Volker over the past couple of months had broken her of some of her inhibitions, common sense said you didn’t keep a stranger at your back while you were vulnerable (especially in the age of cell phones with mega-pixel cameras).

Volker had gasped with pain as she thrust down at him, grinding her clit into his pelvis, balancing her hands on top of his bruised abs.

After leaving him that night, Lisbon had made herself come again on her own fingers, steaming shower water pounding down on her (not unlike the way she’d pummeled Volker earlier), and Volker’s face of pleasured agony lingering behind her eyelids.

She’d had to stumble out of the shower to throw up after. The acid burn lingered in the back of the throat, making her think of his cum, coating her throat as she swallowed it down (which at that point she had done many times).

Lisbon had thrown up again.

Getting ready now was more bearable. Now she snapped orders, made the artists and stylists cater to _her_ tastes on his dime because there was no end in sight to this operation and she was beginning to think there never would be and so part of her was going to get hers while she could.

He liked in her jewel tones, so she exclusively wore grayscale.

He liked her hair down, so she wore it pulled up in severe, yet stylish, buns and braids.

He liked to see the jewelry he’d given her draped around her throat and wrists, subtle claims he thought he could make on her body when he was elsewhere in the room, so she eschewed all things bright and glittering and kept her skin bare (the cross that had been around her neck almost her whole life was now relegated to a permanent spot in her jewelry box at home, brought out only with her rosary when she went to confession [which was all too infrequent now]).

The ways she’d allowed him to control her life at the beginning of this (thinking that her compliance might make him more pliable) she now denied.

Volker, damn him, took it all in stride, but her willful disobedience never failed to get him worked up.

Tonight, they were arriving separately, and Lisbon would get the spine-tingling delight of watching his anger rise in a setting where he’d be powerless to do anything about it.

Lisbon took one last look in the mirror, waving away the brush that was ready to spread more highlight on her cheeks (giving them that “ten years younger glow” that was all the rage now in women her age, but Lisbon was proud of her years, wore each of them with the pride of someone who’d survived a storm at sea). Her skin was pale against the black and white of her dress, but she liked the starkness of the look, felt powerful in seeing herself looking out of the mirror instead of the doll that Volker had tried to turn her into.

One last look and then it was out the door and into the waiting car (she only drove herself when she was working now, and she treasured that autonomy, those moments that weren’t consumed by Volker voracious appetite for her). She ignored the driver, as she always did now, knowing that every person in her life that wasn’t part of her team at the CBI was someone how in Volker’s sphere of influence and could therefore not be trusted (she’d even stopped her mini-interrogations of his employees, who were, to a one, so tight-lipped that she wondered if they were able to speak at all).

And yet, she persevered. The hole was too deep to climb out of now, and she’d reject any rope thrown down to her. She’d bring Volker down if she had to spend the rest of her life doing it. And it didn’t seem to matter anymore that she’d stopped catering to his whims; he wanted her as much now as he had when they’d sat out the stoop outside of a murdered girl’s home.

They were so caught up in this game of cat and mouse that one of them would have to die for it to be over…

And even then, Lisbon knew it would never be over and would continue in perpetuity in whatever hell it was that they made for each other.

She arrived first this time, walked into the room and could immediately sense that he wasn’t there. That was always worse, made her feel like prey as he would stalk her through a crowded room once he arrived. (When she arrived second, she would always clock him and then stake out a corner to await his inevitable arrival, enjoying his frustration as he looked past the hordes of bloated elites only to find her pointedly ignoring him.)

There was an upstairs bar at this party (she knew her host for the evening was probably calling it a soiree to anyone who would listen, but a party was a party was a party to a cop: equal parts drugs, sex, and bad decisions), and Lisbon noted it was less crowded than its downstairs counterpart.

She negotiated the stairs in her heels, lifting the hem of her skirt out of the way so she didn’t make a fool of herself going head-over-ass down the marble steps in front of these entitled assholes. Once she reached the bar, she barked out, “Soda with lime, please,” and already had a bill in hand so the bartender knew she wouldn’t stiff him a tip on a free drink (though this was probably an open bar).

She’d just taken a sip and almost spat it back out when an all-too-familiar voice sounded out behind her, “If that’s you, Teresa, my night just took a turn for the better.”

_Fuck_. _Fuck her fucking life_. _NO_ , _fuck Tommy Volker_ _and his fucking life_.

Lisbon pasted a bright smile across her lips and turned to smile the interloper, “Walter, hi! It’s been so long.”

She did not let him kiss her cheek, though he leaned down to do so. The pretty blonde at his side smiled vapidly at the awkward exchange and took another selfie.

Mashburn, ever quick on the uptake, pointed to someone off in the crowd and said, “Lisette, I think that’s the girl you watch on TV, Kim something or other, right?”

Lisette’s head shot up from her phone and she was across the room before Mashburn had lowered his arm. He smiled fondly after the woman, admiring her determined stride in such high heels.

When he looked back down at Lisbon, his smile had turned into a decidedly dirty smirk.

“Teresa, when I say it feels like it was just yesterday that I saw you, please take it as the highest compliment. I think about you often.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Mashburn; I’m sorry that I can’t return the sentiment.”

Mashburn clutched at his chest dramatically, “A hit! A very palpable hit! You do know how to cut me down to size, Teresa.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she couldn’t help but laugh a little. Jane had been right when he said the empty glamour had been good for her. Mashburn had been enjoyable. One night of scratching that particular itch and thoroughly enjoying it the whole time had been just what she’d needed at a time of high stress.

She’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t miss what had been, categorically, a simpler time. 

“So, what are you doing here? Is it for a case? Is Patrick with you?”

“I get dressed up and you think it’s for a case,” Lisbon smiled up at him, “I think I should be offended, but since it’s you, I’ll just assume you don’t have enough imagination to think of anything else.”

Mashburn grinned, warming up to their game of insults, but it dimmed suddenly, like a cloud covering the sun and he straightened up and tensed a little.

When an arm slid around her waist and a kissed was pressed to her hairline, Lisbon knew why. The hand now clenched in her side told her that as soon as they were alone, he’d unleash the fury that was so tightly contained. If there was one thing that Lisbon enjoyed about his outbursts, it was knowing that she’d caused them, that she was the architect of his anger. When normally he’d be passive and controlled, Lisbon would find his switch and flip it and take everything he poured out on her. It was a victory of a kind, perhaps a pyrrhic one, but it meant that she was able to get to him and one day she’d break him entirely.

Everything about their relationship (if it could be called that) was a matter of time.

(There was a dark part of her that was also enjoying the look on Mashburn’s face as he took in the scene before him: Volker wrapped around her like he had some kind of right to her body that Mashburn himself would never have, that no other man would ever have.)

“Walter,” Volker said, thrusting his hand outward to be shaken by the other man, “it’s been too long; how have you been?”

“Wealthy,” Mashburn returned smoothly, “and getting wealthier. But I’ve never had any issues in that department. Something Teresa always seemed to appreciate.”

_Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph_. She should have seen it coming the instant Mashburn had approached. Should have prepared for the adolescent pissing contest that was going to ensue once Volker arrived. She knew it would be nothing compared to the one that had occurred between Jane and Volker, but that had been a much more private affair.

It shouldn’t be her job to de-escalate this; it shouldn’t be her job to grab two mewling boys by the ears and tell them off; it shouldn’t be her job to be the fucking adult; and it definitely shouldn’t be her job to be the target of what was sure to be a tantrum of epic proportions once Volker had her alone. But she was St Teresa of the CBI and the rest of the party-goers (innocent she would not call them, but they were certainly about to be casualties if she did nothing) didn’t need to bear witness to this exchange.

Lisbon stretched her own arm around Volker’s waist and up under his jacket, pinching him hard, and he snapped his head to the left to stare at her, lip curling up in indignance.

“Tommy,” she purred, and watched his pupils dilate. She said his name so rarely that when she did, his reaction was immediate and always the same: neediness, arousal, _desperation_. It was moments like this that she knew that despite the power he wielded over her, there was weakness in Volker, weakness for her that made him entirely hers.

“Tommy, you haven’t seen me since Wednesday. Did you miss me?” Her smile was hard enough to cut, and he flinched as her words bit at him.

His own smile was tight, “Of course, dear, how could I not?”

She hated his pet names, but she’d invited this and would stay the course. No turning back now.

“Excuse us, Mr. Mashburn; maybe we’ll see you later?” Lisbon didn’t spare him a glance, knew he’d never stay offended (he was too shallow for that), as she steered Volker away, through the crowd to a break on the other side. He’d lead from that point, she knew.

Volker didn’t even break his stride as they switched from her directing him to him dragging her, held close to his side, to the first vacant room they could find.

Lisbon was surprised there was no one else to stop them on their path. Or maybe the look on Volker’s face was enough to scare them off. Were she anyone else, he’d probably terrify her, but after months spent with him in every possible position, at his throat while he was at hers, whatever fear she may have felt of him in the beginning had boiled down to a constant simmer of rage (and arousal).

They passed several closed doors before they came to one that was slightly cracked open, inviting them to explore its dark contents.

Volker looked around them once, then thrust her into the room, quickly following behind, locking the door and not bothering to turn on the light.

They were both night-blind for the moment, the adjustment from the brightness of the hallway to the deep night of the windowless room was sudden.

Lisbon opened her eyes as wide as she could, trying to force her pupils to dilate to the extreme and absorb what light they could.

He was faster than her this time. Reaching out and grabbing at her and pressing her against what felt like a couch. Volker turned her and pressed her down, and Lisbon put up just enough resistance to let him know that they were in this room by her grace and hers alone.

She helped him find the zip in her dress, inhaling her first full breath since it had been cinched around her waist earlier that even and felt him press a hot kiss to her heaving back.

And then he dragged his teeth down her spine, following the dress as it slid down. Lisbon couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her, full-bodied and pimpling her skin. She stepped out of the dress once it hit the bottom of her heels and leaned against the couch as he took the straps on the shoes off one by one.

Volker’s perversions were not always apparent (beyond his sadistic enjoyment of having other people killed while he watched), but Lisbon instinctively knew that part of what was going to be getting him off was the idea of turning on the light afterwards and looking at her while she did her best to cover up what he had done.

His hands, nails digging in slightly, raked up her legs as he reached for her underwear, pulling it back and stretching it beyond use before it finally snapped (flimsy as it was) under the tension and she spread her thighs to let the remains drop to the ground. There was no bra for him to ruin, thankfully, the dress had its own support built in.

It was a familiar theme with the two of them: him fully clothed, her naked before him. Perhaps he thought it made her feel weak or helpless, and maybe it had at first. But now, even posed submissively before him, she felt in control, in her element, in her own skin and fully present.

His hands returned, moving her legs apart roughly, and Lisbon rolled her eyes, not willing to stand while he tried to put her off balance, and knelt on the cushions in front of her. Volker spanked her for her presumption, one hand striking fast, and she elbowed him in return (she knew it hurt, her elbows were extremely sharp as Jane often opined). If anything, Volker enjoyed provoking her, enjoyed her unfiltered responses because it meant she was in the moment and not off somewhere in her head.

Volker moved in, kneeling behind her on the floor (his knees were sure to be bruised, the hardwood beneath them as unforgiving as winter in the mountains of northern California). He went for her cunt first, finding it wet as it always was now, wet for him and him alone (she made a mental note to have a good therapist lined up once all this was done away with).

He started slow, at first, working her up and down, circling her clit and lightly scraping it with his teeth. After that first time, Volker had made it a habit to go down on her until she begged for her release.

Lisbon hated that she always begged.

He filled her with two fingers, no prodding or testing. She was empty, and then he was there, moving them in and out, curled just enough that he was hitting her g-spot with each stroke.

“Volker, ple—”

And he stopped. The fucker stopped. She’d been so close to tipping over and he was gone.

“What the fuck are you doing, Volker?” Lisbon demanded. She would get up and walk out of this fucking room, this party, naked before she’d let him play with her like this.

“Shhh, Teresa, I’m coming back, I promise; just want to go check something. I have a small suspicion about whose room this is.”

She could hear him walking carefully in the pitch black. He seemed to strike objects here and there and she enjoyed the sounds of his irritation, as if he had expected that he would be able to navigate the room like it was one of his own.

There was the slide of a drawer and a triumphant, “Thought so.” His return was quicker, like he had the lay of the land now and could see through the dark back to her.

“Happy now?” she asked sarcastically.

She can feel Volker against her again, his breath hot and heavy against her cunt once more, “You’ve no idea, Teresa.”

His fingers returned, more insistent now, determined to get her off. His tongue has moved back, dragging up her perineum and circling around her hole. The combination of the two sensations brought her over the edge, and she screamed into the cushions. Her thighs were shaking and the aftershocks of such a strong orgasm continued.

“Fuck! Fuck you, Volker, you fuck,” Lisbon gasped

“You knew what was going to happen the instant we walked away from dear Walter, Teresa. You couldn’t have known the specifics, but you knew this wouldn’t be easy,” he warned. “Up! Get back up on your knees; I’m not done.”

He slapped at her thighs and dragged her waist back up, positioning her before him. His belt clinked open and there was the long slide of leather against cloth as pulled it out, dropping it to the floor. His zipper was equally loud in the dark, and it seemed like she could hear each tooth click against the zip as he dragged it down, down, down.

Rather than let his trousers sag over the course of their fucking, Volker let them drop and kicked them away. His shirttails brushed against her, tickling her sensitive skin and she twitched away. He grabbed her again, holding her still as he rubbed his cock through her wet folds.

“I’m going to fire my investigator,” Volker said, casually and without any particular inflection, like it was something he did every day.

The head of cock pressed against her clit and she jerked in his hand, and he clenched down, warning her not to try and escape. He stilled, keeping his cock in place, waiting for her to start moving against him because she wouldn’t be able to stay still for long. She’d move and rut against him, without the will to do anything else.

“She’d told me that Mashburn had been part of a couple cases of yours, but clearly she left something out. I don’t care if it was prudishness, respect for your privacy, or fucking ignorance, but I should have been well-a-fucking-ware that you’d let Mashburn fuck you.”

He hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d brought his cock to rest against her. It was unbearable, that he was just there and not filling her up. Lisbon couldn’t help it; she had to get that friction back.

Her hips moved forward then back, dragging herself over him, and she shuddered.

“Off the fucking payroll the instant we’re out of this fucking place. I can hardly stand to wait that long, but I’m going to fuck you first, you’re going to thank me for it, and then we’re going to go back out there and walk past Mashburn so that he can smell my fucking come all over you, understand?”

“You’re a fucking creep, Volker; small fucking wonder I let you anywhere near me,” Lisbon bit back.

“As if you’d let me go anywhere else, St Teresa; we both know you can’t let me go.”

The hand that had been holding his cock to her retreated, back up to her ass, resting against the cheek, pulling on it slightly as if he could see through the dark and down to it.

Lisbon almost kicked him away then; she could tell where this encounter would end, and though she’d been fucked in the ass before, it hadn’t been something she’d looked forward to (and had certainly never considered extending an invitation to Tommy fucking Volker). There was something stopping her though, some inherent curiosity about how this would play out that told her to wait, observe, see what happened next.

Next, as it turned out, was the sound of a bottle cap popping open and cold lube being dripped onto her ass.

“Great fucking aim, Volker, I can see why they let you play in the majors.”

“Talking isn’t going to get you out of this, Teresa; you know that.”

“Of the two of us, I’m not the coward, Volker; _you know that_.”

He spanked her again, the hand that had been gripping her thighs suddenly smacking into the lube sprinkled over her. The sound of it was intensified by the wetness.

“Do you think he’s got his ear to the door right now, listening like the fucking beggar that he is to what I’m doing to you?”

Lisbon shook her head, the pins in her hair scraping the fabric, dragging and catching a little.

“I think he is. I think he can’t stand the thought of you in here with me and it’s taking all he has not to break the door down. But worse than that, you know what I think?”

Again, Lisbon shook her head, refusing to participate in his childishness.

“I think he’s got his cock in his hand and his ear to the door and he’s so fucking jealous that you’re mine and that I’m doing this to you. But even worse than that, he’s _glad_ , Teresa. Fucking ecstatic that he doesn’t have to do the work to get you to come because he’s got easier woman to waste his time on.”

“Oh, fuck you, Volker; he made me fucking come. It’s not fucking rocket science and you’re not a sex god with a magical cock.”

“Did he, though? Or was it your hot little hand working your clit while he sweated over you like the fucking pig he is? I’d bet my whole fortune that it was the latter.”

And he’d be right, damn him, but she’d go to her grave before ever admitting that.

“You got yourself off and he congratulated himself and you fell asleep in his arms and then you were out the next morning before he could make another attempt at failing to make you come.”

“Maybe what I need to do is go out there and give him another chance, _Tommy_.”

She heard him hiss out a breath at her taunt, fingers clenching hard into her and his hips thrust forward.

“You ever let him touch you again and I’ll make him regret it.”

“Oh, is that a threat, Tommy? Should I break out my badge and handcuffs because that sounded like probable cause to me.”

He was suddenly close to her, for the first time since he walked up to her earlier, his mouth on her neck, biting gently as she squirmed beneath him. One hand was lifting and turning her head so that he could kiss her, his tongue tangling with her own while the other, finger generously lubricated, fed itself into her ass.

Lisbon tensed, lips stiffening against his, but he worked at her, tongue and finger combined, and she softened.

In and out, in and out. The rhythm of his finger was almost soothing, and she started to rock back into it.

“My St Teresa,” he whispered to her, “I’ll say a thousand rosaries to you if you keep moving your hips like that.”

Just to spite him, she almost stopped, but it felt good. Lisbon gave herself over to the building sensations.

Another well-lubed finger was introduced, and the stretch was a little uncomfortable, but his cock was stroking against her now, too, and she bore down, through the discomfort until it started to feel good again.

“Maybe one more, Teresa? What do you think?”

A moan she tried to hold back escaped her.

“Hmm, I guess that answers my question. Hold still now; I’ll tell you when you can move again.”

Volker dragged his cock back and she tried to follow, but he held her in place.

“ _Don’t fucking move, Teresa_.”

Cap popping, lube squirting, and then…

Pressure, at first, then the long slide down until he’s seated and she’s tilting her head trying to meet him in a kiss as he pulls her up and back into him.

She’s leaning against him and his hands are wrapping around her breasts for the first time and he’s tweaking her nipples and she’s gasping into his mouth.

She thought he’d been all the way in before but sinking further back she realized there had been a bit more to take.

Volker moved his hips back and thrust, slow at first and keeping her in place with his hands and mouth. She doesn’t even care that his fingers are dirty from being in her ass, she doesn’t care that he’s not wearing a condom (is even looking forward to the hot spread of his come in her).

“Move with me, Teresa, fuck, let me feel it.”

The tempo of their fucking, to date, had been fast and angry. Him eating her out, her sucking him off, beds, chairs, tables, walls, cars, his office (never hers).

This was slow. This was intimate and close and was all the heat of every single previous fuck with none of the hate.

Lisbon wanted to cry, wanted to push him out of her and run away. But instead she ground her hips down in time with his upward thrusts, reveling in the slow retreat and steady insertion.

She was going to come for a second time tonight and he won’t even have to touch her clit to set her off. She could feel it building inside of her. There was the steady uptick in breath, the clenching of her cunt and subsequent squeezing of his cock inside her ass and he grunted at the intense pressure, struggling to keep the rhythm up as she disrupted it.

She needed to breathe, to gasp in more air than was getting in between their lips, so she broke away. He mouthed at her throat instead, sucking an obvious hickey into her smooth skin.

“ _Tommy_!”

She came apart, lost control of her muscles and would have collapsed onto the couch if his hands hadn’t been holding her up, had his cock not been thrusting up into her.

Lisbon could feel his release, how desperately he pounded it into her, like he wanted part of himself to always be in her.

They shivered against each other as, not quite holding, and waited for the euphoria to pass.

It was slow to leave them, and when it was entirely gone, they broke away, him fumbling in the dark again to find the switch and her going for her dress before he could see all of her in the bright light.

“Close your eyes, Teresa. I’m turning on the light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lisbon's dress and look (sans earrings)](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2010-ready-to-wear/oscar-de-la-renta/slideshow/collection#49)


	8. Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it turns out I have a bit of a backlog for chapters I need to upload, so there's going to be a bit of chap-spam. 
> 
> **WELCOME, THIS IS NOW A PWP**
> 
> Somewhere along the way, the plot (if there ever was one) go lost as I wrote more smut. Please note that VOLKER IS A BAD GUY, and Lisbon would normally never be with someone like him and while they may be boning in this smutworld, we need to remember that his is what he is and there will be some stuff (like murderous ideation and completely heartfelt and actionable threats of murder). 
> 
> Okay, with that said, read at your own risk, and on with the smut show.

“Agent lisbon? Lisbon, can you hear me?”

The voice was fuzzy overhead, as if coming the person speaking was having to find the right station and kept hitting a lot of dead.

“I need you to respond, Agent Lisbon…”

_Maybe they should try switching to FM,_ was Lisbon’s first thought when she came back to full consciousness, _it’s what all the kids are listening to nowadays_. And then she giggled. Out loud. In front of her team and the paramedics and Jane and the dead perp and someone’s dog who’d been too curious to stay away.

Agent Teresa Lisbon of Major Crimes giggled as the penlight swiped her eyes and she would have sworn she could hear her pupils dilate.

“Good dilation,” the EMT remarked, and asked her, “now can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

She wanted to tell the paramedic that it was her hearing that was fuzzy, not her eyesight, but she focused on the fingers hovering in her face. “Three,” she said firmly.

“Good, and can you tell me what day it is?”

Lisbon thought back to that morning, the call, the prodding of Jane out of his bloody roost, the ride over to the scene, the basic canvassing that led to the suspect in the crowd who’d had the sense to run from them but hadn’t had the sense to flee the state once they’d killed the prosecutor in the lee of the courthouse, the ensuing chase, the gunfire, the sun suddenly in her eyes, the recoil of her pistol as she fired, sun-bright eyes finding the outline of her target, the burning of one slug meeting her shoulder and the other grazing her temple.

She’d stayed upright long enough for Rigsby to confirm the threat had been dealt with and then her knees had sagged beneath her and the blacktop rose up to meet her, the wave of hot tar sweeping her under into the dark.

Lisbon knew she hadn’t been out long, that she’d been conscious for longer than the EMT had been prodding her for responses, but the awareness had been slow in coming back. She’d been spending her time replaying the encounter, trying see it without the sun in her eyes, angling it this way and that and hoping that this time the man would come out alive, and every time he fired at her, she shot him dead.

And when she finally came out of it, she was giggling but it was manic and desperate and Jane was looking at her the way he used to before the scent of Red John’s blood had filled his nostrils and his head all the way up. Not that that look had ever gone anywhere, but it had always reminded her that she was a focal point for him, a way for him to connect with the present moment and anything that threatened to take that away from him was met with his wide eyes frantically seeking her outs and his twitching hands moving towards her and away in equal measure.

“It’s still Wednesday,” she told them EMT and raised her head to glance at the sky, wincing a little as she did, “and it’s past noon, I think, based on the position of the sun, so we’ve been out here about two hours now?”

“That’s good, Agent Lisbon, I think I can give you a gold star on your field test,” the EMT smiled at her and she smiled back, but she could feel the way the effort pulled at her, like the muscles in her face were connected all the way down to the soles of her feet and her whole body strained at the effort involved in this brief moment of human interaction.

“If you don’t mind sitting here a while longer, Agent Lisbon, I can get your arm and head stitched up, unless you’d rather take a trip in my nice ambulance,” the EMT joked, and paused to wag her finger in Lisbon’s face, “but, you don’t get to play with the lights.”

“No, no, here’s fine, as long as you say I’m fit afterwards. Which arm—” Lisbon turned her head right then left when she didn’t see anything.

“Damn,” she breathed out, “always the left arm, why do they always go for my left arm? Is it like their guns have some sort of homing beacon?”

She’d lost track of Jane while talking to the EMT (her team had already dispersed to do their jobs once they’d seen that she was fine), and he was suddenly at her elbow, half into the back of the ambulance so he could perch like some kind of demented blonde pigeon while the medic worked.

“I’d say it’s natural for a righty to shoot at the left side of someone’s body, Lisbon; it’s not like he was trained to go for center mass the way you are. That said, I’d be more concerned about your left side having some kind of magnet in it rather than the bad guys have homing bullets.”

“Sheep dip. I think they have homing bullets.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear.”

The EMT cracked a grin at Jane, “Is that a volunteer I hear to monitor her tonight?”

Lisbon flinched and could feel Jane doing the same. The medic’s assumption wasn’t a new one. Lisbon couldn’t even place her in the line of people who’d thought the same about she and Jane, but ever since Lorelei…

_Ever since Volker_ , Lisbon added.

Ever since a thousand things had gone unspoken. The line of “evers” was greater than the line of assumptions at this point, she was sure.

“No,” Lisbon said and heard Jane’s cutoff breath rustle her hair. “No, our consultant will not be staying with me. And anyway, I thought you said I’d passed the field test and that I’d be fine.”

The EMT (Lisbon made a mental note to learn her name at some point) looked taken aback by Lisbon’s denial but pressed on, “I said you passed, sure, but you’ll need about 24 hours of monitoring before you can be cleared of having a concussion. The symptoms don’t always present themselves immediately, and somatic symptoms are common in women, so you’ll need someone there that you’re comfortable sleeping with. It’s either that or a trip to the hospital and an overnight stay. If you go against medical advice, your insurance will not be happy, Agent Lisbon.”

Jane cursed behind her; he knew as well as she did what that meant. Van Pelt was on the phones tonight, Cho, Rigsby, and Jane were all right out due to the perceived impropriety, which meant she had exactly one person she could call. And she hadn’t seen him in over a week.

Since the party.

Since meeting Mashburn again.

Since being taken to that dark room and fucked so gently (not a term she would have applied to anal sex before that night) that it was almost like making love.

“Lisbon, you don’t have to…I’ll pay for the night in the hospital, you don’t need to stay with—”

“Shut. Up. Jane. You don’t get to make assumptions about my personal life like that and you fucking well know it.” Her preferred target for this anger was off in his multi-million-dollar office and Jane had to suffer her wrath instead.

Not for the first time, Lisbon cursed this plan of hers, cursed Bertram for signing off, cursed Jane for being too fixated on Lorelei Martins, and cursed Volker most of all for having the audacity to be better at being a criminal than he had any right to be.

Jane swore again and hopped out of the ambulance, stalking off in the direction of the van.

The medic wisely chose not to comment and went back to working on Lisbon’s stitches.

Lisbon dug around her pocket for her cell and scrolled to Volker’s number and her thumb hovered over the “Call” button before firmly pressing down.

He answered immediately and she cursed into the phone.

Volker, of course, laughed in her ear and it buzzed pleasantly, gratingly, against her.

“Over a week of silence and now you’re calling in the middle of the day, Teresa. You’re a constant source of delight you know, even when you are calling me a ‘motherfucker.’”

“I’ve got more where that came from, Volker, and this isn’t a social call.”

“It’s not?” Volker sounded believably shocked, “But why else would Agent Teresa of the California Bureau of Investigation call me in the middle of the day?”

Lisbon ground her teeth; she couldn’t stop the itch that would only stop if she sank them into her throat while he groaned in pained pleasure.

“And I do love to hear from you, Teresa,” he assured her, the disgusting prick, “your sweet nothings are all I’ve had for the past several nights.”

She hung up on him.

He called back immediately.

“I hate you,” she said, ignoring the look the medic shot her.

“Dinner, then?”

She hung up again.

This time when he called back, she let it ring several times before picking up.

“That’s a no to dinner, I take it?”

“Fuck your dinner, Volker.”

“Straight to the sex is fine with me.” 

“Do you want me to hang up on you again?”

He laughed again, clearly enjoying how just a few words out of his mouth could rile her to the extremes of anger.

“I’ll just leave a voicemail this time, listing in great detail everything I’m planning to do to you the next time you deign to grace me with your presence.”

Her cheeks were burning, she could feel how flushed they were with the heat of his promise when they should have been flushed with pain.

“I’ve been shot,” she snapped, “so consider all the things your twisted little mind is thinking up tabled indefinitely, or at least until I’m healed up enough to punch you for thinking them out loud.”

Logically, Lisbon knew that humans had evolved to be social creatures and that they were programmed to connect with each other and that those connections could be based on something as simple as an eyeroll shared in the checkout like while some man bitched about his expired coupons or something complicated as having sex with someone you knew was a murderer so that you could try and bring him to justice.

But Lisbon would go to her grave before ever admitting that the way his voice turned dark and dangerous, the way she could feel him tensing up, ready to spring into action and destroy the person who had hurt her (had usurped, however briefly, his position in her life), lit a similar dark fire within her.

“Where are you?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said dismissively. “Meet me at my place in three hours and bring me food.”

“Are they in custody?”

Lisbon spared a thought for the dead man and hated that she now thought it was a mercy that he was now encased in a chalk outline rather than left defenseless against Volker’s power. She hated that part of her wished the dead man was alive if it meant that Volker would get to him because he might be angry enough to leave a trail for her to follow this time.

“He’s dead.”

And she hung up before he could say anything like “Good” or “Good job” or “I’m still going to fuck you and you’re still going to come screaming my name.”

* * *

Three hours of paperwork later and she’d had Cho drop her at home, after dodging Jane’s accusing stare that she couldn’t bring herself to meet even though he of all people should understand why sometimes you had to climb into bed with a monster so that at least you knew where they were and that they weren’t out there doing God knows what to an unsuspecting and innocent populace.

Cho didn’t say anything when they pulled up to her duplex and saw that the lights were on.

He gave her a look though, one that said he hoped she knew what she was doing, and Lisbon nodded her head in assurance.

Cho didn’t know, he could only suspect, but Cho’s suspicions had a habit of being right and though she knew if she told him he would keep it quiet, but she didn’t want another member of her team walking around with the full knowledge of what she was doing. It was bad enough that Jane knew (even though he didn’t _know_ ). But Cho suspected and he worried, in his own way.

She waved him on, told him she’d let him know if she’d need a ride in the morning (she wouldn’t; Volker would take her himself and she’d make sure that he dropped her at the corner so she could walk up without anyone seeing).

How Volker had gotten a key to her home she’d never know (the locksmith had assured her that she was on a high security keyway, but Volker’s money spoke loudly and often), but for the first time since this twisted thing had begun, she felt grateful that there was someone on the other side of her door to slide her jacket off her shoulders, put a (small) glass of wine in her hand, and lead her to the bar where dinner was waiting.

Italian. Her go to comfort food.

It was the small intimacies that were starting to get to her, Lisbon knew. She could feel them chipping away at her but she kept digging in, resisting the urge to run to Haffner and tell him the jig was up, there was no way she was ever going to get dirt on him, he was too good, she’d been stupid, had gotten in too deep, get out now before she’s booted from the force in disgrace.

He knew that she’d grown up with a dead mother and first a drunk for a father and then as an orphan in charge of her younger siblings.

He knew that she’d played the clarinet and that she loved jazz.

He knew that she preferred to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door.

He knew what her tension headaches looked like.

He knew that he shared a name with her youngest brother because he’d asked her and not his private investigator.

He knew the names of all her nieces and nephews and sisters-in-law.

He knew that when she’d enrolled in her undergrad she’d wanted to be a teacher because she’d been a caretaker all her life but that she’d switched to criminology after a friend had been murdered and the killer never caught.

All these things about her that he would always know about her, forever written on his memory in the exact same way that he was written on hers.

Volker let her sit in silence and pick at her food. She knew he was staring, taking a full account of her bandaged arm and butterflied temple.

For all that Lisbon hadn’t uncovered Volker’s skeletons, she was painstakingly curating her own exhibit of everything she did know about him.

His clenching and unclenching fist: anger at the one who’d hurt her.

His rolled-up sleeves: life-long habit of keeping his clothes clean, unconsciously done when he thought his hands might be getting dirty.

His foot tapping lightly as he leaned against the bar: impatience for her to finish so that they could go upstairs and fall into bed and he could look her over more thoroughly.

His tie (rarely worn, he preferred to go without) slightly askew: pulled down in thoughtless haste as he’d left the office that evening on his way to her.

She pushed her food away with a disgust that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with her own fallibility.

Volker wisely kept quiet and put the leftovers in the fridge, not bothering to dig for the plasticware and wrap.

He followed her in silence up the stairs to her room and didn’t say anything as he helped her out of her clothes as the shadows of the setting sun tilted across the walls, settling in the swirls of textured paint.

_I could stop this_ , Lisbon thought, her mind darting from reason to reason to send him home, to call Bertram and say “enough,” to call Jane and tell him to let Martins go. _I could stop this right now, tonight_.

But she was so tired, and her bed was soft as she climbed in and settled on her right side, facing the door, her service weapon on the bedside table.

Volker kept blessedly quiet as he removed his own clothes and joined her in the bed, the mattress depressing under his weight as he slid over to curl up behind her. Lisbon tensed for a moment before relenting and settling back into his warm chest. He curled his hand over her hip and tightened briefly before relaxing.

As the world was on the cusp of fading to black, Volker pressed a long kiss to her hairline, just shy of the white butterflies lying against split skin.

* * *

When Lisbon woke up the next morning, snuggled in Volker’s arms, she knew it was the beginning of the end.


	9. Hostility

Trouble, as people said, liked to come in threes. If she woke up and stubbed her toe getting out of bed, Lisbon’s odds of things two and three hitting her later that day were high and were, in her experience, unavoidable.

So it was on that particular day, except stubbing her toe was substituted with meeting Haffner for her monthly debrief (and covert psychological evaluation). This was the end of month two of Operation Bust Volker And Rub It In Jane’s Face That I Did It On My Own (except the more time she spent with Volker, the more unlikely it seemed that she’d catch him slipping but she was damned if she’d stop now).

Meeting Haffner under the premise of getting lunch helped a little, but her team and Jane hadn’t taken very well to the idea of these semi-regular meetings with someone that they didn’t like (she thought she’d heard Cho call him a “usurper” once and had almost banned him from reading Tolstoy on stakeouts for a month). She’d rebuked them though, some rote speech about getting along with other teams and departments was part of what helped them do their jobs better and they would treat Haffner with the respect he deserved or they’d catch hell from her. It had gone down like a lead balloon, but it had gotten the job done. She’d set the tone with her team and they, even Jane, took her direction in this: her lunches with Haffner were no big deal, just two cops talking shop and helping each other out.

The reality of it, sitting across from him in a booth where she had direct line of sight to at least one exit, was something entirely different. She hated the feeling of talking to him, how it reminded her of that con-job of a department therapist who’d tried to pin that murder on her. Sure, the stakes weren’t the same here; Haffner didn’t have skin in this game the way she did (the analogy made her grimace a little, thinking of just how much skin she had in this ‘game’), and his interest was professional. As in, would this explode in the CBI’s face and bring them all under a ton of scrutiny from persons unknown and unwanted, and would he be implicated in this as her ‘handler.’ For her part, Lisbon was certain that if it came down to it, Bertram would pin the whole thing on her and any of Haffner’s involvement (and Bertram’s own) would be wiped away. She could hear the soundbite now: “Agent Lisbon acted without the knowledge or consent of the CBI, and we disavow her actions entirely and apologize to Mr. Volker for any damage that may have been caused by her reckless behavior.”

Haffner wasted little time getting into it and while she appreciated his forthrightness, she mourned her chicken club and its steaming hot crisp fries which would go cold before long (she never spoke to him with her mouth full, wanting to keep the tone of their meetings from veering into the personal).

“Okay, month two is over, Teresa, and I noticed you haven’t filed for any warrants. I’m concerned that this has already gone on for too long. What avenues of inquiry are you pursuing right now that you think might lead to something fruitful?”

Lisbon did a quick count to ten in her head before answering, already hating how on edge she was feeling, how she hated being defensive of an assignment which essentially boiled down to sleeping with a murderer.

“I know you’re concerned, Ray, and I want you to know I appreciate the fact that I have a friend looking out for me in this.” _But you can wipe that look off your face, asshole, I know what I’m doing_.

“I’ve got a couple leads that I’m working on. I’m looking into the disappearance of Horatio Jones, which may lead nowhere, but he was part of that sealed deposition. It’s the stronger of my two leads, but the second one is pretty good. I’ve been making contact with the authorities down in Brazil. I haven’t gotten very far yet, but it could be a useful angle if there was any evidence they gathered that Volker didn’t manage to get his hands on or cover up.”

Haffner nodded politely, making a show of mulling her words over. “Good,” he finally said, “good. I was worried after last month, but it seems like this might actually work. How’d you hear about Jones?”

Lisbon had had her chicken club halfway to her mouth at that point and had to put it back down and wipe her hands with a napkin.

“Not from Volker, if that’s what you’re wondering. If he’d given me the lead, I wouldn’t have told you about it until I’d done some more digging. It was at a party he made me go to a couple weeks ago, and someone who’d cornered him asking for money dropped the name as I was passing by on my way to the bar. I’m pretty sure Volker has no idea that I have it.” _If he did know, my lead would probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, money or no money_.

“The source have a name?”

“Not yet, but I know how to track her down if I need to.”

It was the height of unfairness that Volker got to take a bite of his own sandwich while he asked his next question, clearly not caring that she could see the half-masticated food in his mouth.

“You say he ‘made’ you go to a party; I didn’t know that you’d come out as a couple. How’s that been?”

Lisbon made a small moue of disgust, “About as great as you think getting poked and prodded into a dress is and then having your face painted and your hair pinned up in the most uncomfortable way only to mingle with strangers for hours until your ride decides it’s time to finally go and then having to go back to his place and fuck because it’s your job except he doesn’t tip you on your way out because he’s already helping pay you with his taxes (if he hasn’t found a way to cheat on his tax returns). But I’m donating the dresses and the jewelry and that helps.”

Haffner nodded in understanding as if he’d gone through the exact same scenario that she’d described, and Lisbon wanted to scream and kneecap him in fury.

“Has he been abusing you?”

He’d asked the same question last time, and Lisbon had answered truthfully then as she did now, “No, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.”

“And the sex itself?”

That, too, had the same answer.

“None of your fucking business, Ray. We fuck, we come, I go home, I shower, and I crawl into bed to go back to my job where I spend every minute I’m not working on whatever case we have trying to nail this wealthy criminal for multiple homicides.”

“You asked me for this, Teresa, don’t get so fucking hostile.”

She dialed it back, “Sorry, Ray; it’s not you I’m pissed at anyway. It’s this whole system of corrupt fuckers who have participated in this man continuing to walk free so that now it’s down to me to do whatever I can within the limits of the law to make sure he sees his day in court. I’m tired, but I’m not exhausted, and I know how to tell the difference.”

“That’s something, I guess. Do you want to keep going, or shut it down?”

He’d asked her that last time, too. She hadn’t hesitated before telling him that she wanted to keep going, but now, she let him see her pause.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Ray, and tell you that everything is okay and that I’m perfectly fine. I’m not fine, but this hasn’t gone someplace that I can’t fix once I’m done. He’s not invincible, just well-protected, and I think I can get him if I just have more time.”

“How much time are we talking here? It took you two months to get _two_ leads, Teresa. That seems like low reward for high risk to me.”

“I wish I could put a number on it, Ray, and I know Bertram wants me to; but I’m in this for the long haul, even if that means a whole year. I don’t think it will come to that, but I’m saying that I’m prepared for the eventuality.”

Haffner shook his head, “I don’t like it, but at this point, I don’t have cause to tell Bertram to pull you out. I’m signing off on another month and we’ll review this again when the time comes.”

_Can’t fucking wait for that_.

“Sure, Ray, and thank you. I don’t think you know how much it means to have your support in this.” _Maybe a little too thick, Lisbon, careful now_. That voice had sounded suspiciously like Jane and she resented its intrusion, but it was right. Too much and Haffner would balk. He was smart, a good detective, and his bullshit detector was as good as anyone who’d spent more than a couple years in CID, but he didn’t have years of detective work colored by Jane’s particular method of mystery solving.

“Just keep being careful, Teresa. The CBI can’t afford to lose anymore good detectives.”

* * *

After Haffner left, she’d boxed her lunch, planning to present it to Rigsby (who didn’t care if food was cold when there was a microwave around) and began to make her way back to work. 

Her phone rang and she knew without looking at the caller ID that it was Volker. The man had an almost preternatural sense for knowing when she was out of the office.

“What do you want?”

_“You know how much I love it when you snap at me, Teresa. Makes me feel all warm inside.”_

“You’re disgusting, Volker.”

And she hung up the phone.

True to form, he called back.

_“How does dinner Le D_ _é_ _sir du Cœur sound? We haven’t done French for a while?”_

Disgust twisted her mouth a little. “You mean, I’ve refused to eat French after you snuck some Godawful combination of pâté and snails onto my plate. And because you’re just about the shittiest person in the world, you wouldn’t hesitate before doing it again. So, no French.”

A beat of silence passed, then he brought out the big guns.

_“They have gâteau St-Honoré, Teresa, and I promise, the only pâté you’ll be eating tonight is one made out of entirely chocolate.”_

Damn the man to hell; damn him to a special hell where they’ll spend eternity pulling his toenails off one by one or something equally horrific.

“You’re a shit, Volker, and I regret ever letting you fu – oh God, no.”

She should have been paying more attention to where she’d been walking. The instant Volker called she should have let it go to voicemail or ducked into a nearby building or thrown her phone away, changed her name, and moved to another country.

As if the whole operation wasn’t a nightmare already, Jane was now standing in front of her looking at her like he’d just seen a burning building with hundreds of people still trapped inside.


	10. Greed

She’d never been, and most likely would never be, devout in her faith. Her connection to God was a personal one, and though her priest and the Virgin, Jesus, and all the saints may be her intercessors, they had never had any apparent effect on the strength of her beliefs. Lisbon knew that her connection to God was much like her connection to the law: there was a system in place that rewarded the deserving and punished the wrongdoers. She proved that at work every day, with every case solved, every victim given resolution (even if they hadn’t been rescued from their fate). In a way, she saw herself working hand in hand with God, separating the wheat from the chaff and making every effort that she could to preserve what was good and right in the world.

But after being shot (again) and having spent the night next to Volker in her own bed, under her own roof, and having slept next to him (just sleeping, no sex, no fondling or frottage), Lisbon stopped going to confession.

Father Donald had texted her, deeply concerned when she hadn’t shown up at her regular time. She hadn’t lied to him, couldn’t add to the list of sins she was already racking up; she’d simply texted back that she was on a case that would be taking up all her free time for the foreseeable future. That hadn’t been a lie, but its relationship to truth was akin to an Ozark man’s relationship with his sister: too fucking close.

Instead, the time she’d gone to confession was spent poring over the case file she’d been compiling (as was all her free time that wasn’t spent with Volker). Every piece of evidence was reviewed over and over again, and when that hadn’t yielded any fruit, she went back to the beginning and tried looking at everything as if she were fresh, operating on instinct alone.

She tracked him from his youth through interviews and public records.

He’d revealed that he’d been raised by his grandmother (something he’d had in common with Cassie Flood).

Grandmother Volker had been a Manhattan socialite back in her day, living fat off an old oil baron inheritance that had shrunk only a little in the Great Depression and boomed during the war. She’d married down, intentionally marrying a man who was weaker, less connected than herself and had maintained tight control over all the money that moved in and out of their household. Her son had married similarly, preferring someone that could be controlled rather than a financial equal. Together, they’d flitted about the world while the elder Mrs. Volker had grown the money, investing here and there, growing in Japanese electronics and sampling West German automotive production, buying a potential future rather than buying into a booming market.

Volker had been born and his parents had died, like there’d been some otherworldly deal cut that had stipulated that for as much evil as he was going to bring in the world, something had to be taken out of it first.

Grandmother Volker and little Tommy lived in their Manhattan high rise and watched the rest of the world tear itself to shreds in the economic downturn of the 80s and enjoyed the growth of the 90s.

Ivy League was his natural destination, and he graduated in the top of his glass (but not _the_ top, which struck Lisbon as intentional somehow).

Grandmother Volker had died, and rather than taking all that money, little Tommy had put most of it in a trust for a charity she’d supported most of her life (here, Lisbon made a mental note to dig deeper into that charity, since charities were one of the best ways to launder money wealthy white collar criminals had ever stumbled upon). Then little Tommy, little no more, had gone to make his fortune among the silicon farmers in California.

The New York scene he’d left behind had noticed his leaving in its usual way, with speculation and envy.

Volker grew in California, feeding off of an expanding energy market (and wasn’t far now from making his first billion, if the market kept trending up the way it was right then), and then had come the new stories.

New York and California may as well be on the opposite sides of the world for how often their people interact, but money was its own language, and those who were fluent loved to speak to each other. Volker, as well as all the other unmarried men and women with money, was a favored topic of conversation.

There’d been a time, Lisbon discovered, that they’d all thought he was gay.

The paparazzi were good at following their meal tickets, and Volker had never, not even once, been photographed coming out of some woman’s domicile late at night or early in the morning (or any time of day). He was, however, always sighted within the company of men. Fellow businessmen and entrepreneurs, adventurers and high rollers. But when he hadn’t been spotted at their homes either, those rumors had died down (somewhat, Lisbon knew they still made page four in the tabloids on occasion).

In its place, they’d started speculating that his tastes were _unconventional_ (which was the closest that any of them would ever come to the truth), but there was nothing to prove that, either.

So, all society did was watch him make and spend money, which he was very, very good at.

In the end, Lisbon always came back to the money. Jane had said it before, but it was an old adage among police: “Follow the money.”

Maybe she’d been too busy trying to track what he was currently doing and instead needed to focus her efforts on where he’d been. The thought had occurred to her already: the charity. With something that old and established, something that not only he was a part of, but something his family had helped build…

There had to be something there that she couldn’t see yet without getting into the nitty gritty of the financial details of the charity itself, but it was a start.

In fact…if she got on the phone right now to a forensic accountant she knew (who’d recently taken a course at Quantico), she could get the ball rolling on this tonight and maybe have something tangible in the next few days.

She was scrolling through her contacts when the main door to her office swung inward and Volker walked in.

Her response was instantaneous, her left hand closing the file while her right went for the drawer where she kept gun and standing up all at the same time. She didn’t have the timing down, so she fumbled at the drawer a little before giving up and just decided to go with standing and closing the file.

Volker, the bastard, was grinning at her, all teeth and sinister delight at seeing her struggle in a space that was supposed to be entirely hers.

“One fucking word, Volker, and I’ll have an ‘accident’ while cleaning my gun, and I’ll be sure to aim for your fucking balls,” Lisbon said, almost feral in her anger at being surprised by him like this.

“And how the hell did you make it past security?!”

Volker shrugged, using the motion to ease his jacket down his back and casually fling it on top of the table next to him.

“Why shouldn’t I have access to a public building, Teresa? I’m a law-abiding citizen who pays his taxes, aren’t I?”

Lisbon shuddered a little, “Ugh, the thought of any of your money going towards what the public servants of California make is disgusting.”

“Hmm, should I tell you about the money I’ve given to the CBI’s annual charity ball?”

“God, no! Just tell me what the hell you’re doing here and then get the fuck out! I’m working and I don’t have time to play games with you.”

He shrugged again, clearly unperturbed by her anger, and unbuttoned his cuffs, one at a time.

_Fuck_. Her stomach clenched at the sight, a now Pavlovian response to seeing him with his shirtsleeves rolled up, which was usually a prelude to them fucking. Lisbon hated that she’d come to enjoy the sensation of his clothed body against her naked one in their time together, especially when he used it to play some kind of mind-fuck power game with her.

She watched him roll the sleeves up, had to quickly close her mouth before she left it hanging open.

Volker, in addition to being a sadistic murderer, was a deeply sensual man, Lisbon had discovered. He reveled in tastes and textures and his appreciation was always apparent, vocal, and abundant. There was no part of her that had escaped his exploring grasp, and she, God help her, had been equally caught up in the experience (had scrubbed herself raw afterwards many times, too, but had never been able to stop him; had, after a certain point, never wanted to stop him).

Having reached the stopping point in his stripping, Volker eased himself into her couch, settling back into the soft white cushions she’d come to know so well since Jane had bought it for her.

_Oh God, **Jane**_.

He could still be here, up in his attic, going over his Red John files mirroring above what Lisbon had been doing below. He could take it into his head at any moment to come down and make a cup of tea, see the light peeking out of her closed blinds and decide to investigate what she was doing there so late (a scenario that had played out many, many times in their years working together). Except, this time, Volker would be in his spot on the couch, and Volker would be the one rubbing his hand over the soft purple blanket draped over the couch arm.

_Fuck. That._

Lisbon switched off the lamp and dark swept into office, blinding her a little before her eyes adjusted to the ambient light that filtered in over the uncovered top of her four walls.

“Volker,” she whispered now, “I don’t care why you’re here anymore, just get out.”

“I could do that, Teresa. I could get up and try to leave, but not having your experience wandering around this office while its dark, I may hurt myself in the process and then your department would be hit with a lawsuit before I made it to my physician’s office.”

Lisbon took a slow breath and held it, straining to hear any movement outside her office. Silent as the proverbial grave.

_If I get him in a chokehold, I could cuff and gag him and perp walk his ass to the front door and he couldn’t do a goddamn thing_.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and shook her head. _If only it were that easy, Lisbon. If only._

Better to just give in right now and hopefully he would get bored and leave when he saw she wasn’t going to put a fight.

“Okay, Volker, I’m listening. What do you want?”

“That’s quite the turn, Teresa; I thought I was supposed to leave?”

“You weren’t supposed to be here at all, Volker!” Teresa snapped at him. She was furious now, fed up with her space being invaded by this murderous interloper, fed up with the time she had to devote to him so that he’d see his day in court, and she was well and fucking done with him sitting out her couch with his sleeves rolled up and her knowing that he wouldn’t care that they were in her office and that someone (Jane) could find them at any moment.

_He just doesn’t care about anything, which is why he thinks he can do whatever he wants without consequence_.

The dim light in the office hid some of her movement from him. He saw her come from out behind her desk but didn’t see how her hand crept behind her in a long-practiced motion and grabbed her cuffs, muffling the clink of the chain by holding them tightly.

He certainly didn’t expect her to drop down onto his lap and use the microseconds of surprise to cuff his hands in front of him.

She’d remembered his little gasp of indignation fondly for the rest of her life, would remember how she trapped his arms between their bodies and how he grunted in pain and lust as she used her leverage to pull his hair back, forcing his neck up into her waiting teeth. She sank them deep, not caring that it was above his collar and would be impossible to cover up unless he spent the next few weeks wearing scarves or good make-up.

Lisbon cemented her position on his lap by grinding herself into his cock, and she briefly considered making them both come like that, fully clothed, sweaty, and frustrated at the empty kind of completion.

His hands clenched and unclenched against her, grabbing at her jacket, trying to pull her closer into him and she pushed him away, slapping at his hands when they tried to follow.

It was wrong. It was all so damned wrong that she should be here with him, after spending the whole evening reading and rereading the contents of a case file she’d created to take him down for murder.

It was wrong that she wanted him, that she sometimes _ached_ to feel him against her, his weight pressing down on her as he tried to hollow her out so he could crawl inside and never leave.

She could stop it here, could keep the cuffs on him and drag him out (or call for Jane to help, and he would come running, too, to throw this bastard out of the building). Lisbon could do anything but what she was about to do, and she couldn’t find a single reason to stop. If she could ever bring herself to go to confession again, Father Donald would be getting a very unnecessary earful.

Lisbon grabbed at her ponytail and pulled the elastic out and let her hair drape around her face. She absently pulled the stray hairs out of the band and let them drift to the floor, silently apologizing to the cleaning staff for making their job a little harder. Her jacket was unzipped and thrown over Volker’s on the table and she shimmied her shirt up and over her head to drop down into the now designated clothing pile.

“ _Teresa_.”

“One more word and I stop, Volker. I leave you here in those cuffs and I go and get security. I fucking _dare_ you to try me.”

He settled back into the couch and stared at her as she revealed herself piece by piece to him.

The boots and socks were next, her various holsters and badge, belt then jeans. It was cool in the building and she hoped the air con wouldn’t kick on or else she’d be grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around them like some deranged couple caught out in a snowstorm.

Underwear and bra off and in the pile and she stood before him, clothed only in shadow and she watched him squirm a little, trying to find relief from the restrictions she’d placed on him.

He was a talker, loved the sound of his own voice, especially when they were fucking, but he, hopefully, knew better than to test in this. He was in her house now, and he’d respect the rules of her house or suffer the consequences. And she was sure that his tight jeans were doing his cock no favors.

She should’ve cuffed him a long time ago, it was doing wonders for their relationship.

Lisbon returned to him and sat down on his lap once more. His fingers were on her before she’d fully settled, pinching her nipples, cold chain dragging against her skin. She shivered and pressed into him, soaking up the warmth from his skin. Her breath was coming faster now as he worked her nipples into hard peaks, tweaking and twisting until she was writhing, half agony and half hope that he’d stop. But she had an agenda and him being such an active participant in getting her off was not on it.

She grabbed his hands and twisted his thumbs back and he yelped in pain.

“What did I say, Volker? Not. A. Word. Or this stops.”

Lisbon could make out the angry sneer on his face as he fought back his instinctive desire to snap and hurt her, to wrap his hands around her throat and fuck her into orgasmic oblivion and death.

She lifted his hands by the thumbs up over his head and pressed them into the brick, rubbing them across the coarseness.

“Keep them there, _Tommy_ , or I stop.”

Lisbon could feel the sharp inhale as he reacted to her saying his name.

_Fucking delicious_.

It was really all she needed for foreplay. Anything else would just be a waste of time and another percentage in the odds of them getting caught.

Her hands scrabbled against his belt, flipping open the buckle and all but ripping the zipper open. His hard cock was in her hands in seconds.

_Of course he’d gone commando, what a prick_.

Lisbon eased him inside her, dragging her hips back and forth until he was fully seated. She wasn’t as wet as she normally was when they had sex, but she also hadn’t let him go down on her or fuck her with his fingers until she came two or three times.

Before Volker, Lisbon had had a twenty-year subscription to the five-minute sex club. Foreplay was for people who had time, and when you’re working to feed your family, to pay for school, to catch bad guys, and do paperwork time becomes the ultimate luxury and was not to be wasted on something as frivolous as sex. With Volker, sex could go on for a solid hour or more and ended when he’d had enough of making her come and was ready to get off himself.

Without her realizing it, he’d been training her body for those marathon sessions and it had become harder to get herself off in one of her ten-minute showers. She was forced to linger and work for it, to linger over her clit and cunt and try to eke out something that belonged to her alone. It didn’t help that it always went faster if she let herself think about him.

But here and now, she was in control. Her over him, him under her. Her free, him bound. Lisbon took a moment to revel in the reversal of their positions (he usually preferred to be on top, to be in charge, and she let him because it was easier than constantly fighting for it). She put one hand up against the chain of the cuffs to ensure his hands stayed where she’d put them, the other on his shoulder, steadying herself, and then she got to work.

At first, she kept it to a slow grinding motion against him, back and forth, mixed with small hip swivels. He tried to thrust up into her and when he did, she’d stop and sit still on him until he stopped moving entirely, only then would she begin again.

Back and forth, back and forth, she swayed over him slowly, never moving very far, just enough to keep herself satisfied and him on edge.

It was sheer perfection and the power she felt in dominating him so completely sent a wave of lust through her body and she shook in a small orgasm. But she was far from done.

Volker was panting now, arms straining to break free, which he could so easily do, and grab and force her down and fuck her just the way he wanted until they were both screaming and clawing at each other until they came.

Lisbon rode him hard now, and the sound of slapping flesh filled the air. If she’d been standing by, watching, she would have been horrified and the image she presented: head thrown back in ecstasy, tits thrust out to Volker’s eager mouth, Anyone, even Jane, could walk in on them now and she’d probably ask that they wait outside until she’d finished, thank you very much.

A thought occurred to her, an evil one, unkind in its origins and she knew that that mean streak of hers had only been heightened by her time with Volker.

She slowed for a moment so she could lean down and whisper to him, “Liking the couch, Tommy? Feels good, doesn’t it? You should thank Jane; he has such _excellent_ taste.”

That was it took, really. Whatever restraint Volker had had was gone, and cuffed or not, he could still manhandle her any way he wanted.

His arms were over her, hands pulling her to him, and he thrust up into her again and again. Lisbon buried her face into his neck, mouthing at the bite she’d given him earlier, and hoped, wildly, cruelly that Jane would find them like this because it would hurt him and she was so tired of being the one that got hurt all the time.

But Jane never showed, and she and Volker grasped and pressed and held and kissed their way to an almost painful orgasm.

Lisbon shook against him hard, shivering in the sudden absence of activity.

Volker nuzzled into her neck and breathed hotly on her ear, “If you ever mention Jane when you’re with me again, I’ll kill him right in front of you and then fuck you on top of his corpse.”

She cursed her body for clenching around him at the threat, despised the way she felt ready again when he’d made an actionable threat about someone she cared for. It was an infection, of a sort. He’d corrupted her so thoroughly and she greedily came back for more.

He’d damned her and she continued to invite him into herself like nothing had changed.

Or rather, she’d damned herself by inviting him in. A fall from grace so swift and certain that the angels had had no time to weep.

_Fuck_.

She’d have to get the couch steam-cleaned.


	11. Hangar

She’d met him here, once, and as Volker looked around the hangar, he thought it might have been a lifetime ago.

The past several months with Teresa had passed by slowly, sometimes painful in their meandering passage as they wound ever closer to their terminus. And yet here, at the end, the minutes spent waiting were flying past him, and he felt the distinct sensation of wanting to reach out and grab them, storing them away to be used later when time would be even more precious than it was then.

He kept expecting to hear the screech of tires on tarmac, the wailing of approaching sirens, for his pilot to tell him that their previously cleared flight was now permanently grounded.

And yet…

Nothing.

Not even a phone call from her letting him know that his time was no longer limited but over, caput, and that he had no hope of running away from her because she and her posse and fucking _Jane_ were coming to get him.

All was quiet, save for the flight of planes taking off from the airstrip.

The ebb and flow of machinery in the air reminded him of his first night with her, the way she’d clung to him, had crashed against him like the waves on the shore below. How he’d held her to him afterwards and thought of killing her then and there and being done with it but the thought that she was an excitement, an unknown, had buried the idea before it had fully formed in his mind.

He thought of all times between the now and the then, all the nights (and sometimes days) he’d spent with her, her dogged determination to bring him down so that he’d see his day in court and his equal determination to avoid her hangman’s noose.

Part of him had hoped that they’d be able to play the game forever, had hoped that she wasn’t as good a detective as she believed herself to be, had hoped that Jane would be so tied up with Red John that Teresa would be left to put the puzzle together herself.

The rest of him knew that there was no place for Teresa in the future he wanted to build for himself, and even if he could have carved out a space for her, she would have refused him (Volker tried not to think of that other possible future where she refused him and he took her anyway, trussed up on his plane, struggling to break free, and ceasing once she realized he’d never let her go).

So, no police sirens, no commands from the tower to cease abort liftoff. It was time to go.

As Volker mounted the steps into the plane, he thought he was odd that she was the only loose end he’d ever left.

In the weeks leading up to closing the deal in Dubai and planning his subsequent departure from the States (and his prosecution), he’d tied up all his other loose ends.

Costa had been killed (very quietly) in a drug bust gone wrong.

Clyde had been paid off (his idiocy in the handling of Marvin Pettigrew waved away in the interest of keeping him happy and rich and safely in the bosom of the family that would make too much noise if he were gotten rid of).

And Marvin Pettigrew. It went against every instinct that Volker had to let the boy live after he’d witnessed Jones’ killing, but Clyde had assured him (and his word was very good indeed considering he knew what lengths Volker could go to in order to ensure his disappearance) that the boy remembered very little and would remember nothing after they’d had him hypnotized prior to returning him to his mother with a story of a head injury and memory loss to explain his several-month-hiatus from home.

Offices had been cleared out, accounts transferred, employees reassigned, and projects put on hold for the duration of the move.

He’d accounted for everything that he could, but he knew he’d slipped up.

Maybe it was hubris, maybe it was carelessness. Maybe it was a desire to stay with Teresa (even if it meant life behind bars) that had led to it.

He’d left the room for only a minute, but the papers hadn’t been put away in the safe and she’d seen only a glimpse, but it had been enough.

Volker had put the papers away and had fucked Teresa with a kind of madness riding him and the madness had passed into her and they’d clawed and bit at each other like animals until he’d had the presence of mind to hold her down while he staked a claim on her body and mind that would last beyond their time together.

And after they’d fucked, they’d made love. It was the only time in his life that Volker could remember doing so (though he’d come close the first time he’d fucked Teresa’s ass).

It had been slow and gentle, and they had clung to each other throughout, like victims of a shipwreck to the detritus of wooden carnage. In that moment, he’d hated the tightening of his muscles, the release they signaled unwelcome and unwanted because it meant the end and he’d almost stopped, had almost pulled out and away from her (and how he would have enjoyed the cruelty of leaving her wanting). But Teresa knew him too well by then and had wrapped her legs and arms around him, locking him to her until they came.

Volker had thought about killing her again, then. He imagined squeezing her neck until her eyes rolled back into her head and her body went limp with the absence of life rather than post-orgasmic pleasure. He saw himself kissing her as he did, feeding himself on her dying breaths as she struggled under him and him becoming hard once more and rutting against her oxygen-deprived body, climaxing in that last moment with her. That final act of violence birthing the ecstatic flesh-and-bone sculpture of St Teresa, a perfectly formed imago. 

He’d almost rather have that to take with him to Dubai than the thought of her finding someone else, but he’d held her instead, like he had when she’d been shot (and maybe his arm had wrapped limply around her throat in a pale imitation of her much-desired and oft-discarded murder).

The plane sealed behind him and he shouted to the pilot to begin taxiing down the runway. The jolt of the machine rumbling to life vibrated through him and that sensation of time flowing around him returned. As he took his seat, the plane wheels met the tarmac and he chanced a look out the window, knowing that if they hadn’t made it by now to stop him, he was in the clear and they’d never be able to.

 _She was there_.

He pressed to the window and stared at her, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around her throat (her body) and rage at her for coming now when he was so close—

But she was there alone, standing next to her blacktop and looking back at him, expressionless.

He’d won. He’d won and she’d lost, and he was leaving her behind, never to see her again, and his St Teresa was as still as a stone letting him go.

 _How he hated her_.

For one wild moment, he contemplated running to the cockpit to tell the pilot to stop, but the plane was already turning down the runway and she was passing out of his view.

…

The air of Dubai was hot and oppressive. Its weight pressed against him like a lover, and he thought of that last night with Teresa, her in his arms and she in his and he knew there would never be anything else in his life after that except the embrace of the heated wind rising off his new world of glass and metal and money.

It was the great and terrible freedom he’d chosen, and he would be forever mired in the labyrinthine corridors of his past while the world around him moved on and beyond him.

Volker knew then, standing under the glare of his new sun, as he’d known before in a dark room surrounded by the sound of waves, he wasn’t done with her yet, and until he was dead, he never would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for these two for now! I'm thinking there may be a one-shot in their future (I'm thinking a re-write of Orange Blossom Ice Cream)!


End file.
